Collision
by Emihn
Summary: Once a student and her master, now bitter enemies in the struggle for an Age's future. When they meet again, neither will be unscarred. Gehn and Katran, at the time of her capture, spoilers for Myst, Riven, BoA. One-shot
1. Dreams

Katran released her breath in a sigh as she leaned back against the cave's smooth stone wall. She closed her deep green eyes, drawing some strength from the firm bones of her world. The air she inhaled smelled of earth and sea, the same familiar scent she had breathed since infancy. A firemarble's golden glow intruded into the darkness behind her eyelids, though it did nothing to warm her cold skin.

Her finger slowly traced the book's edge, feeling its leather texture. It was a stolen book, but the skill that had revived and rewritten it had been a gift. However, that gift of Writing had been taught under strict supervision, and for practical purposes only—certainly never intended for its present use. _He_ had no foresight in such matters; his vision was keenly focused, but its field was narrow. Though suspicious of everyone, he could not have imagined that his most favored student would turn into a despised enemy, and use the skill he had given her to write a refuge for the rebels of Riven. Katran had not imagined it either. She had always opposed him in secret, but now she was the leader of those fighting against him. To think that she was their greatest hope to defeat the Lord Gehn . . .

A sick feeling lurched through her stomach as fear and hatred flared in her chest. She loathed him, the murderer and false god through whose hand her beloved world had been written and would be destroyed. Unconsciously her hand strayed to the square-shaped scar on her neck. That was all they were to him. Numbers. Resources to be used for their skills. Slaves that could easily be replaced. Followers whose only purpose was found in the service of their arrogant, capricious savior.

It was without meaning.

Katran's eyes snapped open, and she stared blankly at the golden cover of her book. How strange it was—their weapons were words. Angles and curves of ink on a page, flimsy in themselves, but behind them was power beyond imagining or containing. Both fought with the same weapon, though in drastically different ways. She allowed the words freedom to grow and flourish with little lives of their own. Her touch was gentle, organic, and steeped in dreams. In contrast, her enemy bent and twisted words to his will like raw metal—brilliantly fashioned yet mortally flawed, impaled on their own sharpness. Without the escape she had written, her people would die with the world that had mothered them.

_The womb from which the cry released . . ._

A single tear slid down her cheek and landed on the cover of the book, shining there like a clear jewel. She gazed at it, seeing how it reflected the room in odd convex distortion, like her world's water trying to escape heat. An image of that water boiling in the fire of a writhing death, mixed with the blood of its children, flashed through her mind. Blinking hard, she wiped the tear from the surface of the book, feeling its wetness slide off her skin. That was how she felt—a separate entity, on the surface but never able to get inside, never belonging.

Her own people did not know her. And Atrus . . .

_The lips from which the kiss is wrought . . ._

Katran pushed a stray strand of her black hair behind her ear as she opened the book. The gateway image was still dark, heavy with possibility, its writing finished. It needed the power from one of Gehn's domes before it would work. She thought it fitting that his own book, ink and dome would help cause his downfall. The weapon he had given her over thirty years before was piercing into his heart. The gift was turned against the giver.

"It fits you and your treachery," she hissed under her breath. Her hand had tightened into a fist, but she bit her lip and released it as the bleak vision of reality seeped back into her mind. Staring into the void on the page, its black emptiness seeming almost defiant, her nightmares crowded back into her mind. She felt with searing pain the dagger she wielded against him plunge into her own soul as a bloody gash of stars tore through the flesh of the earth . . .

With a shiver and a sigh that came from deep within her, Katran closed the book.


	2. The Quarry

Gehn stood at the edge of the rusted metal walkway, the railing cool beneath his hands. Below him spread an aqua volcanic lake encircled by cliffs of dark brown rock, the great boiler at its edge. Low grey clouds blanketed the sky, and tiny ripples in the lake betrayed a slight drizzle, but he did not notice. He was deep in thought, his broad forehead creased in a frown, pale eyes like smoldering coals. His pale and golden, broad-shouldered figure contrasted jarringly with his dark, unrefined surroundings, like part of one painting accidentally mixed with another. Ceaseless energy and a restless, regal presence emanated from him, giving him an undeniable aura of power. But he was alone then, with no subjects to intimidate.

Sighing absently, Gehn ran a finely-boned hand through his white hair. The past few weeks had been more difficult than anything he had experienced since his imprisonment. Katran had arrived on the Fifth Age, and vanished just as suddenly.

Katran, his beloved enemy.

His lip had curled in disgust as her name entered his mind, bringing the usual contorted wave of emotion with it. He had trusted her once, more than anyone else alive at that time. Even his son had been questionable all along, since Anna had raised him. That could ruin the brightest mind, as Atrus proved. But Katran was different. She had been the perfect servant—always obedient and quietly receptive. Many times Gehn had paused his work to gaze at her while she sat copying, his eyes tracing the outline of her delicate features and flowing black hair. He had cared for her then. Perhaps he could have grown to love her. If only Atrus had not poisoned her with his stupid, simple-minded thinking . . .

Gehn's expression turned bitter. That would not have helped. Katran had been a witch all along, cleverly plotting his downfall behind his back. He had seen a flame glimmer in her deep green eyes when she did not know he was looking, though at the time he did not understand it. It beckoned and enticed him—almost frightened him. He frowned sharply, repelled by the thought. Of course it was not fright—that was ridiculous. Unnerved was a better word. She was just a Rivenese woman, after all.

Just a woman who had deceived and betrayed him, and masterminded his imprisonment.

His jawline stiffened as he clenched his teeth. He knew she had been behind their plan. It could not have been Atrus—the boy was intelligent in an unsophisticated way, but far from clever. He was too naive.

Gehn felt an uncharacteristic wave of disappointment flood over him. They had both held such promise—his future successor and future bride. Yet he had anticipated trouble with Atrus. Not Katran.

He smacked a fist against the railing with a slight bitter laugh. His thoughts had gone in a complete circle, a maelstrom of anger and loathing and desire. Bitter, twisted, pulsating, half-dead desire, mixed potently with hate. And now she had returned at last to Age Five, to his domain, but for what? Surely not to make amends, since she had apparently brought no Linking Book. Was it some kind of suicide mission to lead her rebel devotees in a bloody religious war against him? Or had she been cast aside like Gehn himself, doomed to live out her days as an exile? A half-snarling smile slid across his face as he wondered how she liked the taste of betrayal. At any rate, they were both trapped, waiting for Atrus to come with a way out. Doubtless he would. If someone had betrayed her, it was not Atrus, the emotional cripple. _He_ would be the one to come running like a would-be hero, not realizing he was linking into a lion's jaws. It would be too simple. And if Gehn could dissuade Katran from her corrupted views before then, all the better. The throne beside his own was still empty, with a thousand Ages to rule.

Gehn sighed angrily. It was infuriating, after thirty years, to have Katran in the same Age and yet beyond his reach. The search for her was continuing at a frantic pace, with no success. If his guards were not so incompetent, perhaps they would have made more progress. The Fifth Age was only so big. And once he had her, the rebels would weaken beyond recovery, devastated by the fall of their so-called goddess. If Atrus never came and she provided no useful information, there was always the wahrk gallows. Gehn's eyes glimmered at the savage thought, but darkened as an old nightmare came to his mind.

The daggers . . .

"Lord Gehn," came a quietly excited voice to his right. Gehn glanced in that direction to see one of his guards standing there.

"What is it?" he demanded sharply.

"My lord," the guard went on with a nervous bow, "we have her."

Gehn released the railing and smiled broadly, pale eyes keen with anticipation. "Excellent. Take her to the prison I've prepared, and contact me when she is there. I wish to question her without interruption."


End file.
